Violet’s experience as a therapist had taught her that loneliness was one of the hardest emotions to admit to at the best of times. Turned out that on your wedding day, it was impossible. So she had fallen back on the traditional method of fueling denial on joyous occasions, which had the added bonus of tasting like crisp vanilla sparkles in a citrus mountain stream. At least, that was the claim of the ‘Premium Wedding Package’ brochure.
‘Don’t you think you’d better give me that?’ said Ashley. Lured by the promise of a Versace dress, she had managed to put aside her own disappointment in Violet and take on the triple responsibility of bridesmaid, makeup artist and sobriety sponsor. ‘That’s your third glass.’
Actually Violet had lost count, but counseling her roommate through half a dozen pregnancy scares had reduced her faith in Ashley’s basic arithmetic. At any rate she was pretty sure it was more than three, which would probably do for starters. ‘OK,’ she said, downing the rest of the champagne and handing Ashley the empty glass. ‘Let’s do my make up.’
Ashley looked at her with something approaching concern. ‘We already did it,’ she said. ‘A half-hour ago. Look.’ She swiveled Violet’s chair around to the harsh illumination of the backstage mirror. ‘Don’t you like it?’
Violet stared at her reflection in surprise. Her eyes were blazing green, artfully surrounded by subtle shades of pink and burgundy. Her cheekbones were sky high. Her lips were a little smudged but still as seductive as they were ever going to get. ‘Oh,’ she said, as a small tear leaked from the corner of her eye. ‘No, it’s beautiful. Thank you.’
‘That mascara’s not waterproof!’ Ashley yelled, pouncing on the tear with a Q-tip. Disaster averted, she stepped back from her handiwork to assess the damage. ‘Are you, like, completely OK?’ she asked.
Violet nodded. Completely sober, no. But completely OK? Absolutely.
‘Because you know,’ said Ashley, with astounding but not necessarily comforting insight, ‘it’s a little weird that he proposed to you. I mean, you only had sex with him once. And you’re not even pregnant. Like, what famous person does that?’
Violet didn’t feel like breaking it to Ashley that the sex count had increased significantly since Hunter’s proposal. Nor did she feel like admitting to herself that somewhere in Ashley’s warped celebrity stalking logic, she may have had a point. ‘It’s my wedding day!’ Violet said brightly. And then, a moment later, to clear up any ambiguity, she added: ‘I’m getting married!’ Finally, in perhaps the oddest gesture of her life, she jumped to her feet and smothered her bridesmaid in a spontaneous bear hug.
A little tentatively, Ashley hugged back. ‘Then we’d better get going,’ she said, ‘because I just saw Cher take a seat. And her face isn’t going to last five minutes in this sun.’
73.
It was a beautiful day for a wedding. The sun was shining, a gentle breeze was blowing, and Elvis was singing the blues. Hunter and Violet stood on the edge of an infinity pool, hands outstretched, eyes locked in a private wonderland. No cell phones rang, no headphones buzzed, no distant jackpots overflowed. There was only Elvis, the celebrant, and love. Caught up in the romance, not a single wedding guest thought about football, Facebook or weight loss. They were transfixed, every one of them, by the ethereal beauty of the bride and the devoted adoration of the groom. They were transported. They were transformed. They believed.
All except for one. Shifting in her seat, Freya bent down to examine a nasty red mark that was starting to form on the top of her big toe. Emerald green and four inches high, the shoes had cost more than her weekly salary, not counting the retrospective bonus she was going to negotiate for planning this stupid wedding. She would have thought that for the commission she had just tossed their way, the snooty sales assistants might have thrown in some blister pads and a bottle of vodka. But no, she was going to have to endure the pain of her purchase sober. Of course, she had offered to pick out a pair of sequined Converse, with a view to pocketing the cash difference, but Hunter had insisted on the Gucci.
It was insane, the whole thing was insane and the most insane thing about it was that she could barely remember any of it. Freya had a strong, nauseating suspicion that somewhere between being confronted with Violet’s breasts and her engagement ring, she had been the victim of foul play. So despite outward appearances – despite her expensive shoes and straightened hair and glossy lips – she fervently hoped that at some point in the future, it was all going to go horribly, spectacularly wrong for the happy couple.
She wasn’t the only one.
Loitering on the periphery of the crowd was another detractor, one who hadn’t actually been invited and who strictly speaking, wasn’t there. He was dressed in the simple tunic of an Olympian prince, and he carried the tools of his trade, held in relaxed repose across his right thigh. A chubby, juvenile version of him adorned many of the decorations in the ‘Premium Wedding Package’ catalogue, and these had been artfully affixed to trees, gazebos and reclining pool loungers. The day was all about love, and so was he. But no one said he had to enjoy it.
It always amazed Eros just how short modern wedding ceremonies were. Then again, it was probably appropriate, given the duration of most modern marriages. Was this his fault? It was hard to say. He had been doing the same thing for thousands of years but it was only recently that the average marriage length had dipped into single figures. Some other factor had to be at work, something over which Eros had no control. Still, even if he wasn’t responsible for every other doomed marriage, it provided no consolation because there was one thing he knew for sure: He was responsible for this one.
Too soon, it was time for the joyous pronouncement. Eros looked down at his sandals, unable to watch the kiss, but also unable to turn off the sound effects. When he looked up, the girl in the bright pink and tangerine dress was handing Violet her bouquet. Eros watched, transfixed, as Violet started to turn towards the pool; laughing, embarrassed, shaking her head but clearly resigned to the ritual. And then she paused. And then she wavered. And then she narrowed her eyes. Then girl in the tropical cocktail dress glanced over her shoulder, following Violet’s gaze. ‘What are you looking at?’ Eros heard her say.
‘I –’ Violet started. She squinted into the sun. ‘I thought I saw someone,’ she said. Eros glowed. He throbbed. He bit his lip.
‘You’re drunk,’ said pink tangerine, grabbing Violet by the arm. ‘Just throw the bouquet.’
Violet frowned, pressing her thumb against her forehead as if to eject the hallucination. Eros held his breath, willing her to look, just one more time. Even though he knew it was impossible, willing her to see. But then she laughed, shook her head, and turned around. Eros felt his heart sink to a new depth.
With her back to the guests, Violet lowered the bouquet and bent her knees, as all the single women at the ceremony scrambled to their feet. All of them, that is, except for Cher, who smiled a knowing smile, adjusted her hat, and remained regally seated as Violet launched the bouquet into the air. It was a good throw, tracing a high, arcing parabola. As the bouquet reached its vertex, it paused, inverted its vector velocity, and was about to plunge swiftly toward the sea of waiting hands when an invisible golden arrow pierced its fragrant center. Instantly, the flowers burst into a spectacular firework, tumbling and twisting into a shower of petals that rained down on the pool, the guests, and the surrounding desert. Even Elvis paused mid-chorus to applaud.
As the Los Angeles Times entertainment correspondent put it: ‘In a town saturated with romantic nonsense, it turns out that nothing beats an exploding bouquet.’ Thus did Eros inadvertently create front-page news and an enduring floral trend at Las Vegas weddings.
And all because he wanted her to see his shattered heart.
Turn the page for a preview of Pride of Eros,
the second book in the Eros trilogy.
Pride of Eros
‘I feel like we’ve been here before,’ said Jesus, looking down at the uncon
scious woman who lay stretched out across his sofa, apparently untroubled by her recent flight across the Hollywood hills in the arms of a panicked Olympian. If there was one thing that vexed Jesus about his friend, it was his seeming inability to learn anything at all from past events. Not that this particularly distinguished Hermes from any of Jesus’ other friends. It was just that Hermes was his best friend, and also immortal, which theoretically gave him the opportunity to behave in the same irresponsible way ad infinitum.
‘That was different,’ said Hermes.
‘How so?’ asked Jesus.
‘Well, last time there were three of us,’ said Hermes, referring to the time that he and Jesus had watched over Violet as she slept, while his cousin Eros vacillated between adoration and despair, finally making the fateful decision to disobey an Olympian degree and save Violet from the bumbling infatuation of Hunter Cole. Temporarily, as it turned out. ‘And last time she was asleep, so in theory we could have woken her up if we’d wanted to.’
‘And what about the other time?’ Jesus prompted. ‘In Las Vegas?’
Hermes shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like to be reminded of Las Vegas; not of Violet’s frightening near demise, nor of his own close call with in vitro fatherhood. ‘That wasn’t my fault,’ he said.
Jesus sighed. He was at a loss to understand how the apportioning of blame was in the least bit relevant to any problem that didn’t involve insurance companies or underworld vendettas. And yet, it seemed to be a particular obsession of humans and gods alike. He gazed over Hermes’ shoulder, appearing to focus on a distant blimp that was hovering above Dodger Stadium. Hermes turned and followed Jesus’ gaze to the underside of the airship, where a statutory warning advised women with exceptional eyesight about the dangers of alcohol consumption while pregnant. Jesus was very fond of beer, Hermes knew, so it was entirely possible that he had forgotten about the subject at hand and was now contemplating the purchase of a low carbohydrate pilsner. Hermes was about to clear his throat when Jesus suddenly squatted down and undid the buckle on his Birkenstock. ‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ said Jesus, tightening the strap a notch, ‘that Violet seems to be somewhat loosely connected to the Earth?’
Hermes turned a lovely shade of palladium. ‘What do you mean?’ he lied.
‘I can’t say for sure,’ said Jesus, undoing the buckle on his other sandal, ‘since I’ve only met her twice, but she doesn’t appear to be entirely opaque. At least,’ he continued, a little embarrassed, ‘when she’s unconscious. I couldn’t really say what she looks like when she is awake.’
Hermes bit his lip, his heart thumping erratically in his chest the way it always did when Jesus tricked him into facing facts. ‘I thought I was imagining things.’
‘No you didn’t,’ said Jesus, smiling as he straightened up.
Hermes’ skin turned from palladium to rose gold. It was true, he hadn’t noticed it in Las Vegas, but this time, when Violet passed out in his arms, he had immediately noticed the surprising translucence of her t-shirt. This wouldn’t have been such an unpleasant experience if he hadn’t simultaneously noticed the carpet through her jeans. The difference was only subtle, but Hermes could differentiate between degrees of transparency to a tenth of a percent, which came in handy when flying on cloudy days or peeking through palace curtains. ‘I’ve never noticed it before,’ he said.
Jesus nodded. ‘It’s definitely worse this time,’ he agreed.
Hermes frowned. ‘What do you mean, ‘this time’? You could see it before? With Eros?’
‘Um,’ said Jesus.
Hermes started to move his thumbnail towards his mouth, then thought better of it. Sometimes his friendship with Jesus reminded him of playing ‘truth or dare’ with the Fates. Telling the truth was superfluous, and dares became oxymoronic when the outcome was predetermined. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t fun. It was just that Hermes always had a nagging suspicion, on the rare occasion when he did manage to come out on top, that it was only because they were letting him win.
‘There’s something else,’ he said. He had been meaning to tell Jesus, really he had, but that ‘to do’ list was balled up in the pocket of a pair of jeans on a permanent spin cycle. With a certain amount of thumping underneath the tiny crocodile on his left pectoral, he took out his cinnamon tin, flipped it open and handed it to Jesus. ‘What do you see?’ he asked.
Jesus frowned. ‘I see your world,’ he said, staring intently at the lid. ‘Your home.’ He looked up at Hermes. ‘Violet can see that?’
Ignoring the question, Hermes snatched the tin from Jesus, waving it back and forth as if to dissolve the image that, to both of them, was as solid as the furniture. ‘Do you think you could go there?’ he demanded.
Jesus rubbed his chin and stared at the ground, inadvertently creating what his acting coach like to call a ‘Rodin moment’. ‘I suppose I could,’ he said, trying to be vague, which only caused Hermes to stare at him with an even more pained expression. ‘I mean yes, of course I could,’ he admitted.
‘Because you can see it?’
Jesus wasn’t sure where Hermes was going with this. He had always felt that he could discuss anything with his friend, from internet dating to universal paradoxes, but by tacit agreement they tended not to delve into the particular natures of their special talents. ‘No,’ said Jesus cautiously, ‘I can see it because I could go there.’
Hermes nodded, consciously acknowledging what he had probably known all along. ‘That’s just what I thought,’ he said.
This is worse than I thought, thought Jesus. But he didn’t say that to Hermes. Instead, he watched as his cat Alfa vaulted from the floor onto the sofa, patted carefully at the unfamiliar body with her paw and then, finding nothing untoward, rested her chin over Violet’s elbow and curled up against her ribs, her tail flicking rhythmically to the rise and fall of Violet’s breath. Jesus smiled. There was something about his cats that always calmed him down. No matter how bitter or pointless a pill he was forced to swallow, watching his cats shed their fur on his furniture suffused his existence with a quiet joy. Even Violet seemed to feel it, as her hand fluttered involuntarily against the cushions.
Hermes twisted his torso from side to side. His ribs were aching in the way they sometimes did when the magnitude of his divine responsibility rose up like the ghost of Cronus. As innocuous as it seemed, there was something frightening about the situation. Unused to heavy thoughts, Hermes was loath to indulge them. But there was no way he could avoid the feeling that the situation was somehow connected to a greater whole; a whole which might start to crumble if they didn’t immediately put the pieces back in the right order. But what in Hades were the pieces, and where in Hades did they go? Then again, maybe he was overreacting. Maybe the sensation in his chest was just the breakfast burrito he had wolfed down excitedly at Sunset Junction, after surviving for so many months on cocktails and spanakopita. And maybe the semi-see-through woman was just the wishful thinking of a shameless flying flirt.
‘No,’ said Jesus, shifting in his comfortable German footwear, ‘you’re not overreacting.’ Leaning across Violet, he massaged the nape of Alfa’s neck, causing a purr like the rumble of a diesel engine. Underneath the cat, Violet throbbed. Once, twice, then a third time, her luminescence flaring then receding like a rhythmic power surge.
‘Did you see that?’ said Hermes, his chest filling with a kind of anxious awe. Jesus nodded, placing his hand gently on Violet’s forehead. Beneath her skin, a billion photons flickered in and out of existence. Deeper still, a thick blanket of blackness held her back from the light. But her life force was steady and strong, pulsing through a complex web of energetic entanglements with determination and purpose. She was in no danger, but she was not on Earth. At least, not entirely. ‘I wonder where she is,’ he said.
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Margin of Eros Page 30